


Acapulco

by JaineyBaby, timetospy



Series: la Vie en Rose [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fix-It, Heavy Drinking, James/Vesper only if you squint really really hard, M/M, Memory Alteration, Spoilers for SPECTRE, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5248673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaineyBaby/pseuds/JaineyBaby, https://archiveofourown.org/users/timetospy/pseuds/timetospy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is missing in Bond's idyllic retirement, and he can't place what it is...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acapulco

**Author's Note:**

> This would not have happened if it hadn't been for [jordankaine](http://www.jordankaine.tumblr.com), who has been instrumental in the creation of this story. I can't thank her enough for the time and energy she puts into this and her invaluable insights and patience as I obsess over all the teeny tiny details.
> 
> Spanish conversation helpfully translated by tytoalbaalejandra, THANK YOU SO MUCH!
> 
> If you're interested, my tumblr for this fandom (and several others) is [timetospy](http://www.timetospy.tumblr.com).

_February 2016_

 

The sand was warm under his feet, even now, hours after dark, as he walked along the beach to the open-air cantina. It felt familiar, but not comforting, like a dog walking to the end of its lead and pulling on the chain.

Madeleine was asleep in their small bungalow, just down the beach. It was as far from the tourist-laden bay as he could find, secluded, private. What he thought he always wanted out of retirement. But it felt wrong. There was this ever-present nagging in the back of his mind, and he couldn’t shake it, that he wasn’t supposed to be here, that he was meant to be back in London.

He ignored it as much as possible.

The beach was silent except for the crashing waves, the moon hung high overhead, washing everything in blues and greys and silvers, the palm trees creating pools of oil-black shadow. He could see the high-rise resorts in the distance, their orange-gold light spilling out over an otherwise peaceful evening.

He carried his shoes in one hand, the other shoved deep into his pocket to keep from reaching out for someone that wasn’t there. It was like walking next to a void. Maybe it was Madeleine, maybe he should go back, but that wasn’t the shape of what was missing, and besides, the hair was all wrong.

That brought him up short for a moment. He’d had that thought before.

The first time was before they’d ever left for Acapulco, weeks ago, and he’d woken next to her. He’d rolled over and buried his nose in her hair, only to find it didn’t smell right, the notes of her fragrance were wrong. When he’d opened his eyes, his fingers carding through blonde locks, he’d been disappointed. That was the day he’d gone to collect the car, had the first bout of inexplicable doubt about what he was doing. It was something just there, in the back of his mind, a quiet whisper of _wrong_. Instead of the feeling ebbing the further he’d gone from London, it had gotten worse.

So, tonight, after a rough shag and a few hours of restless sleep, he slipped out and headed to Manuel’s, hoping to find solace in the bottom of a bottle of scotch. He certainly wasn’t finding it in bed.

Tonight had been the worst, so far. She’d smeared on that awful red lipstick, and he didn’t know why he hated it, he honestly remembered thinking that she had looked quite lovely in that shade. He’d grown to despise it, his skin crawling where she left marks as she’d kissed her way down his chest.

But it was Madeleine. The woman he’d chosen, the one who’d stayed his hand at the last, even when he had more reason than anyone to want that bastard dead. She’d stood there, watching, and he’d chosen. That was how much she meant to him, wasn’t it? That he’d let the bastard live for her?

But he couldn’t shake this awful tightness between his shoulders, the unease, the feeling that he was missing something, missing whatever it was that would fill the void that hovered beside him and begged him to hold out a hand. He shoved it deeper into his pocket.

He found he was humming under his breath again, an old standard, “La vie en rose.” Madeleine hated it, said the song was awful and saccharine, romantic in all the wrong ways. But sometimes, when his thoughts wandered aimlessly, he found he was humming nonetheless, and always that song. Always “La vie en rose.”

He slid onto a stool and waved at Manuel, who nodded, smiling, and slid a scotch on the rocks across the bar without exchanging a word. James knocked it back, the familiar burn of it in his throat like an old friend, and slid the glass back to Manuel for another.

He wasn't the only person in this cantina, but it was by no means filled to capacity. A pair of old drunks in the corner pretending to play cards so they could argue about whose turn it was to pay the tab, a couple of tourists who thought they wanted to find some local flavor but were possibly having second thoughts about stumbling out of their resort. Three prostitutes, one of which smiled at him before the other two smacked her in the arm and told her ‘He never dates, don't waste your time.’

Maybe he'd prove them wrong tonight. He was feeling reckless and a bit trapped in his skin, like he was wearing someone else’s. Like someone had told him this is what he wanted, and so he did. But there was that presence, beckoning him away. What was in London that was so bloody important?

Again, that strange not-Madeleine void opened up beside him, and his fingers itched to lace into a hand that wasn't there, squeeze a thigh he couldn't picture.

He had a distinct memory of standing in a train station, his hand slipped possessively into a back pocket, and a warm, lean body pressed into his side. This one was a recent addition to his dreamscape, and one of the most troubling. Madeleine didn't wear trousers with back pockets. And while they had most definitely taken a train together, it was that strange not-Madeleine presence beside him at the station.

He drained the second scotch and slid the glass over for another. His thoughts refused to quiet tonight, so he would drown them instead.

Manuel slid his scotch back with a nod and a gesture that meant, ‘slow down, maybe’ and James just shrugged, rolling this sip over his tongue until it nearly went numb before swallowing, the chill of the liquid and the burn of the alcohol familiar, known, understood. Unlike whatever it was that was going on in his brain.

He wasn’t completely stupid. He knew it had something to do with that damn chair. If he thought about it too long, he could still hear the whine of the drill, high and sharp. Feel the bite of it in his skin and bone. He was bloody lucky to be alive, even luckier to be sitting here drinking scotch instead of lying on a gurney somewhere, slowly atrophying into a puddle.

With that, he made up his mind. Life was too bloody short.

He set his scotch down on the bar and walked over to the ancient juke box against the far wall. The two old drunks quit arguing and watched him slip some change out of his pocket as he flipped through the selections. About halfway through, he found it. It was probably how the song got stuck in his head to begin with, actually. He’d come here with Madeleine when they’d first arrived, and it had jumped out at him. A song in French in a cantina in Acapulco. It was so strange. He’d asked her to dance when the song came on, but she’d refused. He’d been humming it ever since whenever his mind wandered. He tried to look contrite when she caught him at it, but he couldn’t quite contain the tiny jolt of satisfaction he got out of irritating her.

Well, he was going to bloody dance to it now.

He didn’t know why it was necessary, only that it was an itch that desperately needed scratching, and there were three very willing dancers hanging off the bar, who would be more than happy to join him. For a price.

He shoved his coins into the machine, pressed the selection code, then walked over to the bar, smiling at the three prostitutes, who tentatively smiled back.

"¿Alguna desea bailar?" James asked, a bill folded crisply between his first and second finger.

The woman that had smiled at him when he’d first arrived snatched the money, stowing it deftly in her bra, before giving the others a triumphant look and taking his hand.

She wasn’t beautiful, per se, but there was a confidence in her stride that he admired, and she knew how to follow his lead as he spun her out into the small space in front of the jukebox.

_Des nuits d’amour a ne plus en finir_

_Un grand bonheur qui prend sa place_

_Des ennuis, des chagrins, s’effacent_

_Heureux, heureux a en mourir._

_Quand il me prend dans ses bras_

_Il me parle tout bas_

_Je vois la vie en rose._

He could feel the headache creeping up from his right temple as he danced, his vision going blurry around the edges, but he shrugged it off as the effects of the alcohol. It was when he went to dip her at the end, that everything went dark.

The cantina disappeared, replaced by paving stones and streetlights, a smattering of stars, a crescent moon hung just over the horizon, over an old city shimmering in the still-warm air. He was walking next to someone, his fingers laced with theirs. He looked down. The fingers were not feminine and tapered but masculine and blunt, and they were connected to a wrist that looked as though he could snap it in half if he had a mind to. Not that he ever would. His eyes raked up the sinewy arm, but before he could see whose hand it was he held, the trumpet refrain began, and his attention was diverted to the street performer in the plaza.

The notes were full and pure, he was a good musician, and James felt himself tugged along by the hand in his, dark hair leading him over to where the musician played.

“Dance with me, James.”

 

********

 

James blinked lazily, his eyelids not quite in sync, but he shook himself and jumped to his feet, scanning his surroundings.

" Tranquilo." Manuel’s voice on his left.

"Te desmayaste."That must be his dance partner, he could hear the disdain in her voice.

His mind was still reeling with the immediacy of the vision, the intense reality of it. He had heard the boats tapping at their moorings. How had he known there were boats? The sea had another flavor to it there, older perhaps.

James struggled to grasp the fleeting image, desperate to see if he could force the man to turn, to reveal himself, but the strange immediacy of it was fading, and fast.

It was the dark hair, the slender wrist, _that voice..._

_Q._

It was Q in that vision. Or was it a memory? He’d never had a fantasy that intensely real before.

“What happened?” he muttered, his hands going up to massage his temples. “What have I bloody done now?”

"¿Podrás llegar a casa, amigo?" Manuel asked, concern written all over his face. When James showed up, he usually stayed all night, scotch after scotch, until the sun finally peeked over the hills behind the city.

"Si."

"¿LLamo a alguien?"

"¡No!" It came out a bit harsh, because Manuel backed up a step, his hands raised. “No,” James repeated, softer this time. "Gracias, Manuel."

Manuel nodded and dropped his hands. James shuffled out of the cantina onto the beach, a terrific headache pounding in his right temple, shooting lighting across the back of his head to his left ear.

He got about halfway back to the bungalow before he sat hard in the sand, staring out at the waves lapping up the beach. He felt that void beside him again, except it wasn’t empty, now, it was Q-shaped, and it was pressed up against him, head resting on his shoulder. If he thought about it long enough, he could feel the weight of it.

It all suddenly made ridiculous sense, the pull of London, the wrongness of Madeleine’s hair, all the little bits and pieces that had been swimming in his mind that he couldn’t connect.

What else had been stolen? What else had been replaced?

He pushed himself up out of the sand. He had to find out, he had to know what it was, convenience or commitment, proximity or promise.

He jogged back to the bungalow.

He packed silently, shoving clothes into a duffel bag at random. Madeleine slept on, curled into his side of the bed that had long since grown cold. He didn’t know what would happen, but she deserved better than what he could give her now. And if it turned out that whatever he saw in his mind’s eye was not what it felt like, well.

He would cross that bridge when he came to it.

He scrawled a note, folded it in half and set it on the dresser before slipping back out into the night and making his way to the airport.

**Author's Note:**

> Spanish:  
> "Anyone for a dance?"  
> "Easy."  
> "You passed out."  
> "Can you make it home, friend?"  
> "Yes."  
> "Should I call someone?"  
> "Thank you, Manuel"
> 
> French:  
> Nights of love to not end  
> Great happiness takes its place  
> Trouble, sorrow , disappear  
> Happy, happy to die .  
> When he takes me in his arms  
> He whispers to me,  
> I see life in pink.
> 
> [This is from a translation site. I am absolutely certain there is a more poetic way to do this, but my French is terrible]


End file.
